Junkyard Man

John Reynolds jarred me one day as I wrote the last sentence of an Annual Report. It was perfect timing: I needed shock treatment to get me back to normal.

John, like Abe Springer, seldom spoke, though for a different reason. John's condition was such that he was seldom seen outside his room except for meals, the Christmas party, and his annual birthday-cake eating. So seeing John in my doorway was an event in itself, but to hear him speak was a thrice-a-year phenomenon.

"That dog," he said haltingly, his voice understandably rusty, "reminds me of Angel."

"Angel?" I asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Dog I had when I lived at the junkyard."

I'd learned not to pry into the private lives of the Residents, but when they opened up voluntarily it was only polite to listen well so I sat quietly.

"Damnedest dog you ever saw and damndest place, too."

I nodded, having only heard about the viciousness of the dogs, never having been in a junkyard myself. Since Mr. Reynolds was being so communicative, I encouraged the monologue.

"Are junkyard dogs really as mean as they say?" I asked.

"No. People just think they are. It's 'cause the dogs feel they own every car like they were buried bones."

Sounded reasonable. My nod encouraged him to continue.

"As for living there, it was like being in a cemetery. Exactly like living among the dead."

I imagined all those vehicles once full of life with their engines roaring, and brakes screeching, and horns honking.

"You know what?" he asked, still watching the dog cajoling on the lawn.

"What's that, John?"

"The difference between a human cemetery and a junkyard is that you can bring cars back to life no matter how rusty and smashed up they are. An engine from this green car, transmission from the blue one, seats from the truck over yonder, muffler here, windshield there. A man who knows what he's doing can put any number of pieces together and bring 'em back to life."

I was amazed for two reasons: that this heretofore silent Resident had just spoken more in the last five minutes than I'd heard him utter in several years, and when he spoke he thought so philosophically. And all from seeing a dog chasing its tail on the lawn. After that talk, John slipped back into silent mode. I have no record of him speaking again outside of his annual thank-you to the person in the Christmas pool for his present.

John's junkyard past aroused my curiosity so much that when my car blew a fuse, instead of taking it to the garage and having them put in a new one, I went to the local yard. I must admit that the whole time I was there I wondered if, intuitively, the very reason John Reynolds visited me was to break me out of my routine, to get me to visit the place of his childhood. A few of the Residents, not good with day-to-day reality, functioned best at the intuitive level.

When I asked about the fuse, I showed the junkyard manager the burnt out one. The man pointed to a greasy table with an old Prince Albert cigar box. "Look through those," he said casually. When I fumbled around, he

tipped the box upside down saying, "Easier that way." When I found no match, he asked, "What's it out of?"

"Eighty-eight Ford Ranger. It's a Circuit Breaker, Number 20."

He stared at the back door and pointed an index finger at least as greasy as the table top. "Most of the Rangers are straight down there. See what you can find."

As I dodged grease pools on the floor, the man's words churned in my mind. "Most of the Rangers." That means they have more than one? And they're in a group? When I opened the door I recoiled. A four-acre field was jam-packed with hundreds of vehicles. One was so new it looked like it was smashed going out of the showroom. Others had no motors, how many had doors and trunks ripped off, and rust was everywhere.

As I walked where the greasy finger had pointed, I saw that the field was marked off in sections. The far quadrant was full of oldies. There were the Chevy's, there the Fords, Chryslers on the knoll. The section to my right had new models, cars whose paint was so shiny they simply didn't belong with the rest of the ruins. How beautiful they were. Except most looked as if they'd been hit broadside by a semi or run over by a locomotive. Then I came to the pickups. There was Hank Freeberg's old Dodge. My God, he drove that 'til the day he died. The man was so determined it was the last truck he'd ever own, he tied it together with baler twine, old wire, and even duck tape. I knew I couldn't get caught reminiscing about each vehicle or I'd be there all day, so I searched for the Rangers.

When I pulled fuses from convoluted dashboards with my pliers, I distinctly felt as if I was pulling grayed fingernails out of the hands of corpses. I was surprised I didn't hear ghosts cry out. As freaky as it might sound, the longer I stayed there the more I was convinced that these old

bodies still had life in them.

Back at the greasy counter, I noticed the man staring at me shrewdly. He didn't say anything, but it was obvious that he treated me differently than when I'd first entered.

When I returned to Sugar Loaf, horn a-blaring, I watched John Reynolds closely. He and the junkyard were so alike: they both looked dead with worn out bodies overdo for burial, but inside there were definite sparks of life. As I sensed this, I heard the dog on the lawn bark.

"Angel," I said out loud. "Good name." Then I remembered that I hadn't seen a dog at the junkyard. Was this John's guardian, come to see how he was doing?

That's the way it often was at Sugar Loaf. One incident after the other, one insight following the next. I'm glad I kept my Journal because it has reminded me of so many things from the past. It has also revealed to me how interrelated everything is. Both the living and the dead.